


So This is Home

by silver0wings



Series: Merc' the Jerk [4]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Amputation, Descriptions of penises and their many uses, Trans Male Character, drug use (medical but illegal), physical abuse mention, sexual abuse mention, solo masturbation, trans guy mercury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-02 14:26:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12728334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver0wings/pseuds/silver0wings
Summary: Begins right after 'It's Just a Different Game'. Mercury is taken to the super impressive evil lair, and spends the next few weeks adjusting and figuring out his new life.





	1. Going Home

"Ow ow- Easy!" 

Hearing myself willingly admit to being in pain without it being sarcasm is... new. Why the hell am I doing that? Need to get my shit together, cut that right out before they think I'm useless. 

They want a mercenary, not a wimp. 

I don't whine again as the green haired girl - Emerald. She said her name as Emerald, - helps me get my other leg situated in the car. She makes a quip I don't quite catch, and then seats herself in the front with the other woman, Cinder. 

It's clear the two of them have known each other at least a little while, but there's no denying who's in charge. Cinder's got the plan, Emerald's a lackey. Which makes me... Likely another lackey. I can live with that. Don't think I want to be in charge of anyone but myself, anyways.

Neither of them speaks much, tension in the air. Emerald didn't like me, didn't' think I was needed, but she wasn't voicing her concerns again - the forming bruise on her cheek showed Cinder didn't approve of her speaking out of turn. Keep back talk to a minimum, noted. 

I'm not sure when it happens, but I sleep through most of the car ride. It's been a long night, and it looks like there will be a little more before I can get some real rest. 

I wake to Emerald pinching my cheek. It isn't some cutesy bullshit pinch, it's like she's trying to pick my skin off. 

"Mghuck?" Wow, coherence is really my strong point. I should pick up a career in public speaking if this being a murderer stuff doesn't pan out.

Peeling my eyes open, I find myself slumped over to the side, one door open and Emerald leaning over me. She looks annoyed. She hasn't looked not-annoyed since I met her. 

"Cinder, I owe you twenty. He's alive." 

They were betting on me. Great. It doesn't make me feel as bad as it should. It feels... What is that emotion? Friendship? That's an emotion, right? 

No fucknuts, it isn't. 

I can't feel friendship. I never have. I never will. My mind's coping with the night's prior events (RE: Killed my dad. Lost some legs. Lit the house on fire), and that's more than enough to drive anyone to the point of making up new and impossible to feel feelings. 

Friendship isn't even something I need. 

Emerald helps me up, and Cinder gets my other side. The new set of legs feel so much heavier now than they did before, steps more dragging, each harder than the last. 

I look up, finding my vision fuzzy. But I know what I'm looking up at. That's some shitty ass apartment building that looks well on its way to getting condemned. All it needs is some breeze to come along and the structure would probably sway right under it. 

Cool it, Hurricane Merc'. They probably don't want their shithole house taken to its knees. 

I'll save that for a backup plan if things go south. 

The sidewalk up to the place is cracked. I trip twice, the second time I end up completely on the ground. 

Right knee knocks hard against concrete. The weirdest part about it is I can _feel_ the metal. I can feel something shooting through it and telling me that I should be feeling pain, but it isn't really pain. It's like a muddled sensation that feels like how metal against concrete sounds. Annoying, grating, _loud_. 

I realize that if I ever tried to explain how it felt to anyone, they wouldn't be able to understand. I doubt anyone else has prosthetics built like mine are. I doubt anyone would care.

There's no tsk like I expect when they help me up. There's no kick while I'm down, and I... Don't know what to do with being immediately punished for being weak. 

I don't know how to handle people being nice without it feeling like a trap. 

I don't know why this doesn't feel like a trap. 

I'm so thankful the elevator works. If they wanted me to take stairs, I would've just said nope can't do it I'll find someone else to follow around. I'm glad they don't ask if I want to take the stairs instead, just pushing the button and letting me lean against one wall as we wait. 

The place is just as dingy on the inside as it is out. The elevator creaks and makes some awful noises, and I decide that as soon as I'm walking without this much fuss, I'm taking the stairs. Maybe their floor is the decked out evil layer I'm expecting. Or a secret entrance into an evil layer. 

Something cool. 

Something stylish. 

Something... Not a shitty studio apartment with a fucking air mattress and the world's ugliest green couch with mystery stains greeting me.

Wow. Okay. Maybe these two aren't as serious as I thought. 

Maybe they really do need me. 

I'm lead over to the couch, and don't question when told to sit. Emerald heads back outside when Cinder says we need bandages. The last look I get at her face is one where she looks the slightest bit sympathetic, but I don't get a chance to remark on it. 

I can't stay sitting up, opting to lay flat across the couch before I fall over. My eyes fall shut, only to open right back up. 

Those are fingers on the waist band of my sweatpants, tugging at them. 

Oh, fuck no. 

She isn't my dad. She can't just do _that_ whenever the hell she wants. 

This doesn't have to be like with him. I won't let it be like that. I won't let someone else do what he did, never again. 

I try to lift my knee up fast, smash it right into Cinder and then tell her that that's I'm a hands off zone when it comes to anything below the belt. 

But... My movement is sluggish, and she doesn't seem intimidated by it at all. Or really bothered. She cocks a brow, pushing my leg back down. 

"You're still bleeding, I don't want to have to dispose of a body. Right now you're running off aura, not actually healing. You need me to do this." 

My teeth grit and fists ball. She's right. She's not trying to touch me, she's just trying to deal with potentially deadly injuries. 

I take a steadying breath, and answer her, "I've got nothing on under these." 

She grabs a towel and hands it to me, and then goes back after my pants. I don't lift my hips or make a move to help her, but don't fight it either. The towel was an improvement from what I would've gotten before. 

Whatever blood-loss fueled sleepiness I was feeling earlier disappears, heart loud in my ears and skin pricking with every touch of soft fingers or drag of fabric. 

I didn't get a chance to clean myself up at all after... I don't want to see the mess I am. I don't want her to see it. I don't want her to ask or take pity or have sympathy for it. I don't want her to do whatever it is that people _do_ when they see someone who's been made a mess of. 

I want that life to be over. I want to never think of it again. 

Cinder slides a beaten armchair up, seating herself and lifting one of my legs onto her lap. The towel moves, and I have to readjust. 

Those fingers are so delicate, gentle almost. She presses a cloth to the bloodied seam of flesh and metal, and I hiss out at the touch. 

The door opens, and I push up enough to see Emerald, a bag under her arm. She looks me over, leaves the bag by Cinder, and is about to head off into what I can assume is a bathroom. 

"Screwdriver," she's holding her hand out, expecting Emerald to supply her with one. There's no hesitation when she turns on her heel and starts hunting through a drawer for one. 

"You're... Taking them apart?" I swallow, lips feel too dry. 

"This part's just a casing, below is what's bleeding." 

Nodding, I shift back just enough to lean against the armrest of the couch. It takes a decent bit of force for Cinder to loosen the screws and take the metal that hid just a bit of actual fleshy leg. 

The joint where it really meets the metal is a hideous thing. Dad either didn't give a shit about doing a neat job, or had been drunk past the point where he was capable of precision. Unmanaged wires sinking into the flesh, jagged and uneven cuts into it, and blood dripping from the seam. Whatever was below that was a mess of wires connecting my nerves system to the metal, letting me feel and control them. 

My stomach twists seeing it. I would never be able to remove these without damaging what's left of my legs. If these broke... There would be no easy replacement. I'm certain he did this intentionally. He made it so I could never remove his last project. 

So I'm stuck with the memory of him. Forever. 

Emerald is leaning over Cinder's shoulder, watching her examine the wound and rotating the cap of an orange pill bottle. the way her face twists seeing it tells me she hasn't seen as much blood as I have, as I'm sure Cinder has. 

She seems like a nice girl, wonder what secrets she's hiding. 

Once Emerald finally fumbles the cap off, she hands me two pills, and then a glass of water. I turn them over a couple times, trying to determine what exactly they are. Probably painkillers. I don't ask, downing them and following up with the water. Could've swallowed them without, I've swallowed a lot worse without, but it's nice to get the taste of blood out of my mouth. 

Once more, Emerald walks off, and this time Cinder doesn't call her back. 

I don't trust either of them. I really, really don't. But right now, I don't have a choice but to sit with my life in someone else's hands as I try to work through everything that's happened. 

Dad's dead. My legs are gone. I've got two prosthetics that might not work well. I didn't bring my gun with me when the house caught fire, so that sexy piece of work that's been pretty much my only happiness the last oh, sixteen years, is gone forever. I'm following around two strange chicks with unknown motives, agendas, and goals. I took drugs I don't know what they are. 

I've broken about every rule in dad's "Don't Get Dead" handbook, and I can't say I'm all that upset about it. 

I actually not upset about a lot right now. My head's fuzzier than it was before, and I was apparently lying when I said my vision was blurry before, because this is something else entirely. Nothing hurts too bad, mostly dull aching and heaviness, but that's liveable. 

I've felt this before. 

Those were strong painkillers. 

I think I love Emerald.

Or, more likely, I just love not being in pain. Yeah, that's way more likely considering.. Well, I don't think love for people's real, and certainly don't think it's possible for me. It isn't something I need, want, and thus I can't feel it. 

Nope. Don't need to love. Don't need to be loved. 

I do, however, need to sleep. The feeling of it catching me has been dragging me down for a while now, drawing me in and letting me lull off as Cinder does... Something that's causing an awful bright light, and I'm closing my eyes to avoid it. 

Should really be more concerned about that, and the overly warm almost hot sensation that's going on there, but. I'm not. 

I'm not concerned at all.

I'm kind of asleep. 

Not fully there yet, still aware enough to hear Cinder say something to Emerald, which means she must have come out of hiding from wherever. I'm not sure what it is she says, but her voice is soft and flows easy. 

I don't feel pain when Cinder cleans up my other leg, and I'm asleep by the time one of them drops a blanket over me.


	2. Gang's All Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercury's second day, and first time meeting Neo and Torchwick

Fire. It's all burning, the house, the yard, the forest that goes on for miles around it. He's laughing at me, calling me pathetic and weak, that no matter what I do I'll always be the slimy sobbing child he sees me as. His foot comes down on my throat, and I can't move, can't get away, can't breathe. My vision blurs and skin blisters from the fire. No air, no air, no air-

I wake up. 

My lungs still burn, and the heat of flame is a fast fading memory, but I'm not there anymore, I'm not in danger of having my trachea crushed by my dad. 

I'm still in the dingy apartment, laying on the shitty green couch. Still with aches down both legs and bruises tinting the rest of me blue and purple. But now there's something hard pressing into ribs that are beyond sore, and I can feel someone looming over me, so I keep my eyes shut. 

I haven't known either of them for longer than a day, and I haven't been in a good enough state to get a good sense for what they feel like to be around, but I'm still pretty sure this isn't either Cinder or Emerald. No, this person smells of smoke and dust, and when he finally speaks, I'm certain it's neither. 

"Cinder? Your couch seems to have grown something." 

Cinder can't answer before I grab for whatever it is that's jabbing me, eyes opening and- oh god. Everything just tilted, and my stomach feels sick, and everything hurts way worse than it did before I had moved. 

Fuck. Being seriously injured hurts. 

It hurts a lot.

I try and focus, looking down to see what it is I've got in my hand, and who this chump is. My eyes are watering, and I feel like I'm on an ocean's wave, but I get a look: Stupid coat, dumb hat, and a cane that he was using to poke me. Oh, look at that. There's a girl who looks like she's about 12 tucked against his side, one hand on his coat. A daughter maybe? Little sister? No, there's not a resemblance between the two. There's another thought about what this kid could be, wondering if he's got the same tastes that dad has- _had_ , and if there wasn't a sick taste in my mouth before, there is now. 

I hate this guy. 

I'm gonna make sure he knows it.

"Touch me again, I break your stick." There we go. The threat would've sounded great if my voice didn't break halfway through, and if I actually had the ability to carry through with it, but hey, it's a good start. 

The fucker laughs. 

"Ooooh, you hear that Neo?" He turns towards his too-small companion, "he'll break my _stick_."

Neo, apparently that's her name, grins something foul that children aren't allowed to wear, and her hands twitch and move, forming shapes and gestures. I realize after a long moment, it's a form of sign language, but not something I know.

Cane guy does know it, though, because he's grinning all the same. "A good idea, but I think-" 

"Torchdick, move." Emerald's smaller than this guy by a lot, but she hip checks him and he stumbles to make room. She's got a pill bottle in hand, and water in the other.

She's brought salvation from pain and rescued me from some asshole who's enough of an asshole to already have himself an insulting nickname. Or some cruel parents. 

I think I love Emerald. 

Or, maybe I don't, because now she's making me sit up so I don't choke while swallowing, and as previously covered, all forms of movement are bad and painful.

"Know how t' swallow without choking," gross. Is that my voice? I sound like dad on a bad drinking binge. 

Emerald thinks its gross too, or thinks my swallowing comment is gross, because she says as much with one word, "ew," and makes me take the water and pills.

I take the offered pills, noting that there are two different kinds this time around, and follow with water. These ones aren't as fast acting as the others, taking a while to kick in and just barely taking the edge off just enough to keep me functional. 

'Torchdick' and Neo are having their own little conversation, signing back and forth with each other. It takes me a moment to find Cinder, who's sat with a scroll in her hands on the air mattress, intent on ignoring the rest of us. 

Slowly, I move my legs and the blanket, looking under to see the bandages done, and- shit. I didn't put pants back on last night. Where are my pants? 

I'm in a room full of strangers, without pants. 

Am I sure I'm awake? 

I take stock of the current situation, running a double check in my head. Dad's dead. I have robot legs. I'm in an apartment with two chicks with unclear motives, a pervert, and a middle schooler. I took unknown drugs for the second time. I have no pants. 

Those are all, unfortunately, real things that are happening, and this is not a dream. 

Fuck.

My life has become almost comical with how complicated it is. A night ago I was just some scumbag brute assassin, and now I've joined the world's more clusterfuck band of bad guys. 

I wish I was dreaming again. 

Even if it's of dad choking me with a boot, at least that's normal. At least I can deal with that. At least I- 

"Mercury," Cinder's voice cuts through my thoughts better than a hot knife and flesh. Everyone stops, or at least quiets, and the attention is on her. 

She's like me like that. Likes the eyes, likes people knowing she's there, that she's powerful. Don't know where she picked it up from, but I know I got it from years upon years of having to stay hidden. 

Cinder's set her scroll down now, but hasn't moved. She sits in the same way a commander would - up straight with head held in confidence and without a doubt that she is in charge - despite... Y'know, sitting on a partly deflated air mattress. It's kind of impressive. 

"This is Roman Torchwick and his literal partner in crime, Neo. They're our insight into the criminal underworld," she pauses, looking towards Roman, who I've already decided to call Torchdick for the foreseeable future, "though, Mercury's about to give you a run for your money, Roman. He know's a thing or two about finding a city's secrets." 

Torchdick doesn't seem to like that, but just offers me a hand to shake, and when I take it, he says, "nice to meet you, kid," with a smile that's one part smug and four parts rancid evil. 

Not that I'm some goody two shoes, but fuck this guy. Bend him over the nearest surface, take that polished cane, and ram it right in-

"What, no hello?" He scoffs and pulls his hand away, wiping it off as if I dirtied it. 

I flip him off, still in the middle of wondering just what he'd look like bent over. His pubes are probably the same orange as his hair, I can't decide if that's funny or weird. Gross. This is gross. I bite my tongue 'til I taste iron, and that stops the thought train. 

This has been a thing for years - picturing men, attractive or ugly, in compromising situations, usually situations I had more than a little experience with. Not like I'm upset by the things I've done, the things that have been done to me, it's just... Broaded my imagination. 

I'm not upset. 

For the next hour... Or has it been a few hours? I'm on coast. Nothing processes, nothing really gets through. I don't speak unless spoken to, and when I do, it's short, cut simple and lacking any of the usual attitudes I usually carry. 

It isn't me. 

This is a really great first impression. I'm just sat here, blank death staring the wall and chewing my tongue, trying to get rid of the iron taste and only adding more. Least my mouth isn't as dry as it was before. Least they're not asking me too much, or maybe I'm just not listening. 

This isn't like last night. This isn't brought on by drugs and pain. This is flat out dis... Disso- Dissa-? Shit. I can't even think. There is a word. Used to do this when I was young, I'd lock up and shut down while out on jobs, and get my ass handed it to me for it. Hopefully, someone kicks my ass soon, gives me a slap on the side of the head or a knee to my nose and brings me out of this enough that I can pretend I'm functional. 

I start bracing for a hit that never comes. 

They're content to let me drift, or don't notice that I am, just like I hardly notice when Neo and Torchdick leave to do - what are they doing? Why do I care what they're doing? Whatever. Resume and insert thoughts about canes and where they can be put.

I collapse back onto the couch, grabbing and popping a few more pills since Emerald left them in my reach. They're not as strong, so a few more can't hurt. Right? Yeah. I'm not gonna double check that with anyone, either. 

I don't stop drifting when I wake up, and I don't remember falling asleep. I don't when Emerald brings home shitty takeout dinner that's hard to stomach. I don't stop drifting later the night, when the pain in my legs is so unbearable I reach for the pills again, and question briefly if this is becoming a crutch. 

I don't stop drifting until I stand and fall, and wish I had a literal crutch. 

What the fuck? 

Thought process restored, I recap again. Dissociation. That's the word I wanted. I was out of it, I tried to stand to- fuck, I still need to piss. Recap postponed for a potty break. 

I remind myself to never think the words 'potty break' ever again, so I don't risk saying that out loud, because I am not five years old, I am practically an adult at 16.

The legs are still heavy as I push to one knee and then use the wall to pull myself up. And they're loud. Cinder rolls over on the air mattress, and Emerald throws a blanket over her head on the armchair.

Oops. 

Whatever. I am a man on a mission, some casualties are expected. 

At least the apartment is small, and I can mostly just limp along the wall on the way to the bathroom. It's small too, with a tub that might be smaller than the average teacup, toilet, and a sink. The room has enough space for maybe half of that. 

I shove the door shut, and hey what'd you know, I never put on pants. 

I'm a fucking genius. 

Such a genius, that I decide, hey, I have a penis. I've done this with a prosthetic. I can do it for real now. This is it, this is happening, this is a thing I have spent more than a few moments daydreaming about. 

This isn't just the sweet release of consumed liquid, this is a long-awaited moment. This is one thing one thing on an infinitely long checklist of things that I couldn't do before.

.... 

Alright. Peeing standing isn't as exciting as it's cracked up to be. Admittedly, maybe I shouldn't have expected to feel like a king and have fireworks shoot off while standing in a dark cramped bathroom, half doped up on whatever, at 4 AM. 

Why am I even awake at 4 AM? 

I'm going back to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, special thanks to Adox and 'a' (anon?) who commented on the last chapter! I went to update today and saw those and it made my day. Hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> Hopefully a third comes soon and is a little more exciting, sorry this one sort of had a bit of a gross ending, but I've literally never seen a story talk about a trans dude being stupidly excited over the little things, so. There.
> 
> Before it gets asked, Neo is a legal adult. A tiny, tiny adult.


	3. Boredom Breakdown

It's been a week since Emerald and Cinder brought me here. Since Cinder welcomed me to the crew and kept me from bleeding out on the couch. A week since my life changed from the steady stream of hits and assassination jobs to a sea of unknowns.

A week. 

Of boredom. 

Well, four days of boredom. The first three I spent so out of it in pain and reeling from the events prior (Dad's dead. No more flesh legs. Home's gone. My sweet blue gun is probably charcoal. It's a lot to take in), so couldn't really be bored then, but I certainly am now. 

Emerald gets to go out whenever she wants, whenever Cinder doesn't have something for her to do. She gets to go off and do whatever normal stuff is, without too many expectations. Neo and Torchdick come and go, thankfully they live somewhere else, I don't think this apartment could hold another body. I'm not sure it holds the three of us. Everyone has a job, has a use, has a purpose. They all provide something, they all do something. And me? I... I... 

I don't. 

I don't have a purpose. 

Why's she still keeping me here if I'm just dead weight? 

She's putting all her money on a lame horse, fingers crossed that he'll walk again and the cost will be worth it and all that bet money will be returned ten fold. I'm like investing in dirt and hoping that one day there's a shortage. Cinder, by just keeping me alive, by just letting me stay, is putting more trust in me than I've put in anything ever. 

I don't get it. 

I might never get it, she seems to have a plan that hasn't unraveled, and we're just in phase one of whatever scheme. For all I know, she's got plans for me that don't require me to walk and be useful in the ways I was before. But I'd really prefer if they did. 

I'd prefer to fight something again.

With the steady stream of pain relief, antibiotics, and rest, I might get that wish. I'm recovering, but it's slow. And boring. So. Fucking. Boring. 

Maybe it's the high energy, fast-paced, do it or die, lifestyle I've always led. Maybe I want to pay Cinder back. Maybe I want to punch Torchdick. Maybe I just don't like sitting on a couch collecting bed sores. 

Maybe I'm just bored and it isn't that complicated. 

I kick the blankets off and stand, not shaky, but off balance. My center of gravity isn't where it used to be, it's lower. This has a few benefits, which don't really shine through during my short walks around the apartment, but I grew up a strategist, assassin, and a brawler, I can see the tactical advantage to having two hunks of metal strapped to my thighs. 

I can plant my stance better, could probably get a couple good punches in, more freedom to move my upper body without the risk of falling. Might even be able to dodge a blow. That'd be new. I've always just taken the hit, let the buttload of aura shielding that's always been a Black family trait sort it out and worry about where I'm putting my next blow on them before they can get a second hit on me. Could be nice to get out of the way for once. 

Could also be nice to deliver one mean kick. 

There's a grin on my face as I rinse breakfast and pills back with flat soda, battles that had never happened against opponents that may never exist running through my mind. My fingers twitch whenever imaginary me fires a gun and I find myself pacing out the steps of the fight in the kitchen's tiny floorspace, entertaining myself with something that isn't there at all. 

If I can build up enough muscle strength in what I've got left of my legs to be able to move with some level of coordination and speed, picking up a lower body centric fighting style might be worth it. I'm not a stranger to close combat, but I've only ever really had practice against a couple of people, the main one being my dad. My actual kills tended to be either sniper rifle shots from too far to be caught, or something up close but impersonal, like posion. 

Learning to use the cursed hand I've been dealt might be a real challenge, but it might also give me something to do. 

From what I've seen, neither Emerald or Cinder is really a heavy hitter that can take a punch, so they need me to fill that role. I'll be what they need. 

I'll be wanted. 

What the hell? 

When have I cared about that? Must be my brain deteriorating from lack of activity. I need to get on fixing that before I rot into a sap. 

Now that I've got fighting on the brain, I need to hit something. 

Emerald and Cinder are out, something about some guy named Adam, which is the least villain-y name, save for Neoplation, which is... Literal ice cream. 

Someone named that poor kid ice cream. 

And I thought my dad hated me. 

Point is that I'm the only one home. So I can't really pick a fight, not that it's really smart to pick a fight with Cinder who has a pretty sweet firey-glass-heat-thing semblance going, and Emerald who... Well, I love Emerald, but she scares me. A lot. I'm not entirely sure why, but it's got something to do with how I swear I've seen her face before. 

I'm alone, bored, and want to start a fight. 

This goes without saying, something is gonna get broken.

There isn't really... A lot to break in this apartment. If I break the air mattress, Cinder might roast me. The armchair's seen hell already, and I sleep on the couch so I'm not really inclined to break it. Next best thing? Fridge. Yeah. Nothing bad can come of kicking the thing that stores my food. 

To hell with it. No regrets. 

The fridge is getting FUCKED UP. 

One foot planted and the other swung round-house style, upper body counterbalancing the too heavy leg, and all the force I can muster put into the blow. The clunky metal foot dents the door with a loud smashing noise. 

Hell yeah. I beat up an inanimate object despite being a double amputee. Really showed it who's boss. 

Wait. 

Uh. 

Shit. 

That dent in the fridge? The perfectly Mercury Black robo-foot-shaped dent? The one I just kicked into the poor thing that's so loyally chilled my food and beverages?

Yeah. My foot is stuck in that. Like, really, really stuck. 

Why am I so stupid?

A few tugs, and it isn't budging. I'm starting to feel the strain of exertion on the still healing muscle, and this is just not happening. This can't be happening. 

My chest is tightening up, feels like there's a cork in my throat. I don't know when they'll be home, I don't know what they'll do when they find me stuck like this. I don't know what's going to happen. 

If this was my dad, I'd be stripped bare, humiliated, and left stuck 'til I figure a way out of it on my own. I'd be made an example of, my worthlessness proved by the state I got myself in.

I don't want Cinder and Emerald to realize I'm worthless. 

I throw my weight backward all in one go, a forceful gust of wind pushing me in the same direction. The fridge jerks forward, threatening to tip for a horrific moment. My foot comes free, and I land firmly on my ass as the dust, cockroaches, and cereal boxes that rested on top of the fridge come unsettled and fall to land on and next to me. 

The panic's still in my blood, giving me strength as I push up and get the hell away from the fridge, retreating to the bathroom, the door slammed, and shower thrown onto the hottest setting.

My breathing hasn't settled, my chest still feels too tight and each gulp of air down is hell. Shouldn't have kicked the fridge and stirred up dust and bugs, should've known that would make my lungs throw a fit. 

This is so not the time for an asthma attack. 

Humidity usually helps, makes it easier to breathe and I'm not near it anymore, so it should start to fade. Should be okay. 

The adrenaline high fades after a few minutes, and it leaves an emptiness behind. Why am I so stupid? 

Legs still weak, I sit on the edge of the tub, hands scrubbing at my eyes and rattling out shallow breaths. I'm sitting in a tiny bathroom, of a shithole apartment, struggling to get air down the right way, and crying. Why? Because I kicked a fridge and my life is in shambles. 

I haven't cried like this since the night dad took my legs with a dull knife. 

It all floods out at once, a rush of choked sobs muffled into shaking hands. Eyes burn, sting and ache from the tears that just won't stop coming, wanting an end but not having one in sight. Snot clocks my nose and breathing is hard, it's so, _so_ hard to just breathe like this. I'm shaking bad enough that I sink to the floor instead of the edge of the tub, threatening to fall if I didn't sit somewhere more steady.

Why me? 

That's the only thought I can hold. Why me? The hell did I do to deserve all this? Does God just hate me? If there's a God, which I doubt at this point, then she's gone and shredded everything I ever wanted, ever thought I could have. 

Oh, you want to breathe, the most basic thing in life? Asthma. Oh but you're fine, because look, you've got a wind semblance. That totally balances it out. 

Want to Walk? Let's cut those nice long legs off. Scratch that. Let's have your parent, your guardian, caretaker, the guy who raised you and taught you everything you know, rend those legs from your body with a knife while you're still conscious enough to feel every stroke of the blade passing through your flesh. Let's leave you with the memory of what he did in the form of inescapable metallic hell. 

What's this about love? Fucked by your dad? Yeah, that sounds about right. 

I don't want any of this. 

So I cry. I cry until I can't feel anymore, until all I am is a shell filled with the swirling mix of frustration, snark, and the insatiable urge to fight something. 

Figures that the last one wouldn't bite it after the Fridge v. Mercury showdown. No matter what I kick the ass of, no matter what kicks my ass, I'll still want another round in the ring. 

It's never gonna be enough, not until one of these times it gets me killed. I'll always be looking for the next hit, in physical beating or substance form. 

Think when I see Torchdick again, I'm really gonna hit him. He's the only one frequently close who I can hit without serious problems, since Emerald and Cinder are out of the question on grounds that they're scary, and I refuse to hit little miss ice cream because I'm still pretty sure she's a child.

I stand up, wiping snot, tears and blood - when the hell did I start biting my lip? Why do I always bite it? - on my sleeve. 

I'm a goddamn wreck. 

Still bruised from the night I killed my dad, downright sick looking pale, eyes red and puffy and face wet. Gross. 

No one's ever going to take me seriously looking like this. 

I strip off my shirt and pants, and slip into the tub, legs still hanging out as I sit. It isn't just because they're metal and bandaged and I don't want to get them wet, but they seriously wouldn't fit in the tub without discomfort if I tried. Curse of small spaces and a decently sized body. 

The water ran cold a while ago, so long that it's starting to warm back up. I let it hit my face, rinse off the salt and tears, spit out the blood from chewing my lip to shreds, and gargle water to rinse the taste. Soap over scars, shampoo, the works. 

It's a shower, and a pretty uneventful one. At least, until I get to my legs. 

They still hurt to look at. 

I unwrap the bandages and toss them off to be forgotten, and clean what I can up. Cut, welded to metal, and cauterized by Cinder, what's left of my flesh will never be pretty. It'll never be the freckle-less, beautiful expanse of toned muscle it once was. 

It'll never be _me_ again. 

There's no sense in cleaning metal, since... It's metal and I doubt soap is good for it. So I focus on what's left of my legs, working from the top of my thighs to the joint of my hip, massaging some of the tension and soreness from the less damaged bits. It isn't a lot, isn't like the numbness of pills, but between that and the now hot again water, I'm not in agony. 

I lean back, tip my head against the wall, and just sit working the knots from my legs. I can breathe fine again, I can think and trace the patterns of the ceiling texture, I can be content for the moment and realize that yeah, maybe today isn't the best day to fight someone. Maybe I should let myself heal a bit more first.

Most importantly, I can realize that hot water and contact in places that haven't been completely fried of all sensation kind of. Feels nice. 

Feels nice in the oh, there's a boner, sort of way.

Not fully fledged and standing tall, but blood was starting to flow and things were stirring. I shift, looking down at myself for a long, long moment.

It's not like I haven't been turned on before. The other times just were a bit lacking, with the lack of, well. Actually seeing a dick between my legs, even if I can still make out the lines of grafted skin and know that it wasn't there before despite it looking damn convincing, is new. 

This is new, and exciting, like it's the first time all over again. 

Except it's not. It isn't at all like that. Because I know exactly what to do with a semi-hard dick. Maybe it's a different angle from what I'm used to, but grab, stroke, squeeze-stroke isn't exactly hard to master. 

This has been a long time coming. Been something I dreamed about and could almost feel in moments of bliss for years. It's not earth-shattering, but it is among my top five best moments, not that there's really a lot else up there to contend with. 

Jerking it is fun, and if ever there's been a day when I needed something non-destructive unlikely to backfire, that day's today. 

Squeeze. Stroke. Roll hips. Repeat. 

Rhythm is _hard_ , and it turns out it doesn't really matter much anyways. I'm sporting a hardon without really putting a lot of effort in, and I am fine with that. If all I have to do to feel decent and lose track of my gripes is a little tug an' love, then so be it I'm never leaving the bath. 

Everything is warm, every touch feels good, and every fiber of me is working towards a common goal. There isn't any conflict as heat pools low and my breathing gets heavy in a way much better than before. 

This is good. 

But it's not enough. 

My pace, what shitty semblance of one I had anyways, picks up as my left-hand reaches below the right and squeezes and rolls my balls. On other people, balls aren't really all too exciting, kind of just there and in the way. They come with dicks, so they're tolerated. But mine? Those are something to get excited about. It isn't narcissism, it's just that they're finally _there_ and tangible and feel good to touch. 

There's finally what I wanted there. 

I feel like I should get a free pass on whatever groaning, moaning, unrestrained sexual noises I make, because c'mon. A guy who was cursed with so many years of dicklessness is gonna be excited the first go he gets at his own package. 

I move again, accidentally banging one leg against the edge of the tub as I try and get more purchase to thrust into my hand. Still so weird feeling the way ceramic rings against metal, but it doesn't feel _bad_. If anything, it pushes me closer to the edge, and so I do it again without really thinking that I'll probably ding the tub up. 

Whatever. 

Some sacrifices need to be made. 

It won't be much longer. I can feel it, a tight coil, a spring wound and ready to pop at anyone to touches it the wrong - or right - way. 

Comparisons to shaken bottles of soda don't really match up, because when it happens, when that spring pops and I jerk against my self and strain and curse, nearly fall as my ride comes to a full stop and I crash hard and fast, there's no big fountainous eruption. It's a little disappointing, not like porn at all. One or two good spurts, and then just drizzles. 

Not like I'm complaining. Not like I could complain, with the way my head swims and I can't stop grinning. 

Nothing quite like the rush of orgasm to perk you up. 

As the feeling fades, and my breathing evens out, I stretch and relax in the tub. Whatever I was losing my shit about before is gone from my mind, washed clean just as the shower washes beads of sweat and cum from my body. 

That's one hell of a way to combat a break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the first time I've updated back to back. There's exactly one reason for that. Someone left a really, really nice comment on the last chapter and I happy-cried and I couldn't stop smiling so I. Wrote more. You're welcome and thank you for commenting.


	4. Cinder

"MERCURY SHITHEAD BLACK!" 

That's a nickname I haven't heard before, seeing as shithead definitely isn't my middle name. 

I'll have to commend Emerald for her creativity in coming up with that. Such genius is entirely unmatched. I should be really be moving a bit faster, but the water in the bath is still kind of warm, and I'm not quite ready to leave the comfortable heat that's done such a nice job at easing my nerves and aching muscles. No need to hurry if it's just her- 

"Mercury. Get out here now." 

Oh. Oh shit. 

That's not a voice belonging to some irked girl who's eye level with my chest and who I could probably throw if I tried, that's the gut curling disappointed tone of a woman who's the only reason I'm alive today, seeing as it was her semblance that cauterized my leg wounds. 

That's Cinder. 

And she doesn't sound happy. 

"Uh. Just a sec'," I raise my voice to be heard through the bathroom door and haul myself up with the wall's support, struggling to get pants on - why do they catch and snag on these legs so much? - and get myself the hell through that door to meet what is probably a fiery death. 

They're both standing there in the kitchen when I round the little corner and realize that right, the fridge is looking like it met the business end of a boot. Or rather, the business end of a metallic foot. Emerald is fuming, picking up now room temperature leftover take out that she had probably planned on eating. Cinder looks... How I would expect Cinder to look when she's about to kill someone for inconveniencing her. 

Oh god. 

She's gonna kill me over the fridge. 

Shiiiiiiiiit. 

"Yeah?" I'll just play it cool, let my eyes glance over at the fridge. I can't fiend surprise, they'd know I was lying in a heartbeat. No one, not even a drugged up double amputee who's been sleeping 18 hours a day, can miss something as major as the fridge being beaten within an inch of its life. 

But I can pretend it wasn't me. 

"This about the fridge?" 

"No Mercury, it's about the couch," I can hear the eye roll in Emerald's tone without even looking. I feel the tension in the air when Cinder's eyes shift off of me and onto her, and Emerald is quick to cut the snippy comments out and put her head down. 

I shrug my shoulders, pocket my hands, and lean against the wall. The legs still hurt, and I'm a little off balance, so it's better to have the wall up against my shoulder. And y'know, looking cool is sort of mandatory. I'm not really scared, I've still got a shot at lying my way out of this.

"Torchdick showed up, was mad I ate something he left here. Hit the fridge, stirred up dust. A lot of dust. You guys ever heard of a vacuum? I was covered in the stuff, went for a shower to get cleaned up." 

No need for them to know about my asthma or masturbation. 

No need for them to know me, since I don't know them.

Cinder's face softens up a touch, and for a second, I think I'm home free. Than _someone_ pipes up, gesturing at the dent in the fridge in a fashion that's just a tiny bit more dramatic than is called for. 

"It's shaped like your foot!" 

God, I hate Emerald. 

That slight softness, that moment of consideration that that is a thing that Torchdick might just do, fades quicker than hope in a hellstorm and Cinder is back to looking ready to kill. 

She's going to kill me. 

"Mercury," she pauses on my name, taking a couple of steps so she stands in front of me, glass heels clicking on the cheap laminate floor and dress sways with the slightest of her movements. 

She's got a grace to her, one that screams _'I am above you, and you know it.'_

A painted and pointed nail running the length of my jaw, from ear to chin, to get me to tip my head towards her. I'm taller by a good bit, broader in the frame and with more of a brawler's build than she has, but she's able to rattle me to the core with the slightest warmth in a single fingertip.

My lungs fail, and it's the fault of fear, not some medical condition, that I can't inhale. I can't move, can't straighten away from the wall and ready my stance. I can't find it in myself to shield myself in aura, or use my semblance to protect myself. I can't do anything to defend against an attack I set myself up for.

Cinder is terrifying, and I am defenseless and defeated before the fight even started. 

I swear if I live through this, I'm never crossing her again. 

She is earth splitting in a way entirely different than my dad. My dad would have no words, no warning, he'd lash out with a beating and call it a day once I was blue and bloody. Cinder is building up to something I can't predict, because I've never had to beg for her mercy.

I've never had to beg, never been given the chance to degrade myself in that way. I've always just been hit, never had seconds feel like hours as my heartbeat screams in my ears. 

I've always been the one in Cinder's shoes, never been the one about to be killed. 

And she knows it. 

She knows exactly what she's doing. Knows how well it works and how it's silenced not only me, the target of her actions, but Emerald who hasn't dared move from her spot. Knows that I am a fly in her web. Knows that without her, I am nothing.

When she speaks, it's in the same torturously slow manner, dragging the hell on and letting her golden eyes bore into me as her finger still rests on my face. "You're... Cunning, and brave enough to tell me a boldfaced lie just to get out of trouble, even at the cost of throwing one of our precious few allies to the hounds." 

Her finger taps against my cheek, and it's got such a heat to it, I'm gonna burn up. My face is burning hot, and eyes are wide and throat dry. I can't breathe and I can't think anything but _I am going to die this is it._

I'm going to die. 

This is it.

She's so, so disappointed. I don't have experience with that. Only anger over my failures, not this. Not someone seeming almost sad that I didn't do what they wanted me to. She's not angry, she's upset.

"We can't just have you destroying our home, Mercury-" 

I can't take her words.

"I'm sorry." The words tumble out before she can finish, and I don't know what I was thinking saying them. Those two words are so weak, and I'm sure if she wasn't going to kill me over the fridge, she'll kill me for being a cowardly scumbag who can't even take the pressure of disappointment. 

I've never felt remorse, never been sorry for anything I've done, never even said those words best I can tell. I've certainly never had them said to me. But I mean them. And maybe I only mean them because my life's on the line, but I _mean_ it.

I don't want her to kill me with me. I don't want anger, disappointment, I don't want it. 

I don't want to give her an excuse to do the things that my dad did, to be like him. 

Cinder's eyebrows raise, and she's caught off guard. Like no one's ever interrupted her before.

She laughs. 

It's not an evil, maniacal laugh, either. No, this laugh is like she really does think what I said is hilarious. But she's still Cinder, she's still grace and power, so the chuckle isn't overtaking her or uncontrolled, only lasting for a few seconds. 

She pulls her hand back, and turns towards the fridge, opening it up and looking inside for one thing or another. Like she's just after a snack, but isn't sure what she wants. Like she wasn't going to kill me seconds before. Her voice so so much less serious than it was, no longer dragging it out. No longer trying to scare me. "You're acting like I was going to throw you off a cliff. All I was going to suggest is that we find you someone a bit more lively to fight, since you seem to be itching for that." 

That's it? 

She just. Wants me to beat up a person instead of an intimate object. 

She wasn't going to kill me. 

She isn't my dad. She isn't going to rip off my limbs and taint my body because I made her mad. She isn't some drunken madman who gets his kicks beating a child into the ground. 

She isn't Marcus. 

She's Cinder. 

Scary, powerful, elegant. My boss, the one who's going to tell me to do unthinkable things and expect me to not question her judgment. But also my savior, a beacon of hope that maybe I'll survive. She's the person who picked me up on the worst day of my life and dusted me off, seeing me in my most vulnerable and battered and saying _ah yes, I want this one. I want the broken boy who's been spat on some many times he'll never be clean again. The one who was born a murderer, who's first kill was his mother. I think he'll be a great addition to my little gang. I think he's valuable. I think he's worth a second chance._

She's not just power hungry, and she's not just saving people for no reason. She's both sides of the coin. 

She's not some one-dimensional person, there are so many more facets to the jewel that is her very being than I thought when I first met her. 

She's so much more than I am. I'm just some dumb guy who wants to fight anything that comes within a mile radius, there's not much more to me. I'm not smart, I'm not cunning like she thinks, I'm not brave, I'm not anything but a punching bag that gives out what he gets until he's crumbled up and tossed away. But Cinder, she's got motivation and smarts and maybe not compassion, I don't think that not killing me is enough to be called compassionate, but maybe it's forgiveness that she just showed me.

Maybe she's really different than everyone else. 

I thought I was a toy, a tool, a henchman who'll get dumped as soon as I'm trouble. But I'm not. I'm not the same to her as I have been to everyone else who's used me. She's still using me for her gain, but she doesn't want to deplete me, she wants me to remain useful to her, wants me to stick around. 

She values my loyalty. My skills. My knowledge My shitty comebacks and bickering with Emerald. She values _me_. 

She doesn't want to burn me to a crisp and strip me of what little I've got left. 

I don't know what to do with this knowledge. 

I know what I won't be doing with it. I won't be abusing her mercy. I won't be breaking more things in the house, even if it means bottling up my insatiable urge to see how much damage I can do. If all she wants is me to be in line, then in line I'll be. 

I won't betray Cinder. 

Not after she's put trust in me that no one else has ever considered me worthy of. 

"How's that sound?" 

And suddenly, I realize that time actually does continue to pass as I have this internal monologue-slash-crisis stuff going, and that Cinder has likely been talking this entire time. 

And she thought I was listening. 

And while I've been forgiven for the fridge, I shouldn't test her patience right now. 

I'm screwed. 

"Yeah, sounds good." Thank years of practice that I can sound convincing when lying as long as there's not physical footprint-shaped evidence to prove otherwise. I sound like I honestly think whatever she's just pitched might just be the solution to whatever problem she's trying to solve.

"I'll talk to Roman and Neo tomorrow, then. This will be... interesting, for sure." There's a twinkle in her eye, something I'm not sure what it means. Mischief? Curiosity? Amusement? Those are the usual reasons for getting twinkles like that, but I'm not sure any quite fit Cinder. 

What did I just sign up for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very Cinder-heavy chapter! I've decided my goal of this story is to kind of establish Merc's relationship with everyone in the evil gang and where he fits in, and also that.... They're human I guess? That they aren't just Bad Guys, they're Bad Guys who Also Do Other Things and Have Feelings. This means there'll be a chapter or two for Em, Roman, and Neo too! Theoretically, it's Neo who's up next, so stay tuned.


	5. Maintenance

Eight days, fourteen hours, and about twenty-seven minutes since my legs got cut off. Not that I'm keeping track or anything. 

Not that I'm at all worried about the legs. 

After yesterday's fight with the fridge, they've felt... More wrong than usual. Dad was no mechanical mastermind, and they were put on in a rush and probably planned out while half sober. It's no surprise they've got their flaws. It's no surprise that they don't feel right after I kicked something hard enough to get stuck.

It's no surprise that the last gift dad gave me sucks.

With Cinder planning I-don't-know-what with Neo and Torchdick, and it being something that's going to hopefully involve me getting to kick things and try out that lower body centric fighting style I've had my mind on for the last day and a half, I need these to hold up. 

I need these legs to work. 

I need to not be reaching for that orange bottle with the white lid that contains these magic little capsules that make my head spin and worries fade every ten seconds, if I ever want to fight much of anything besides kitchen appliances. 

I need to be useful. If not for Cinder, then for my own stir-crazy self. 

For all the apartment doesn't have, it's got tools. Bet it's because everything here is falling apart, and Cinder and Emerald have had to fix things a number of times, there's no way the owner of the apartment complex would do it. Is there even an owner? I'm not sure, seems like this place might just be kept running by the collective scumbags that hide away inside it. 

Not me, though. I'm not a scumbag. Scumbags take care of their home, apparently. I just destroy it and eat all the food. 

I'm more a cockroach. 

Ha. Cock.

Now that I've spent a good solid second laughing at the fact that penises exist, it's time to actually get to work. 

Emerald's around the apartment somewhere still, on her scroll tucked away into some corner not actually big enough to fit a person like she always is when she wants to be alone, but Cinder's out, presumably to talk to Torchdick and Neo. So I've got some time alone, and this time I'm going to spend it being productive. 

With the tools located and set off to the side for the time being, I snatch the blanket off the couch and spread it across the floor, not wanting to lose any parts in the questionably stained shag carpet. Because I'm apparently a princess, I grab the pillow too, and place it on the blanket, and then my butt on the pillow. 

This throne sucks, but if I was a king, I'd be a real bad one, so I think it's fitting.

I've had more than enough of my pants being off for a long time, so instead of stripping, I just roll them up. They're somewhat stretchy sweats anyways, so it works well enough and doesn't hurt the flesh-leg too much. 

It's weird. Looking at these two metal things is so weird. They aren't mine, but they are. They aren't me, but I'm connected to them. I can't feel them like I can feel the rest of me, but I _can_ feel them, in a way that isn't right and I'm still trying to figure out. 

They're weird. I'm weird. Life's weird. 

I'm not traumatized that I have these, at least, I don't think I am. I don't have flashbacks whenever I look at them. I don't think of dad and that night every step I take. It's not always on my mind, and it hasn't even been that long. But... when my brain gets too quiet, when I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, I can still feel his hands on me and the pain of a knife on a chunk of thigh I don't even have anymore. It's the times of silence, when I'm alone, that he still haunts me. 

But I'm not traumatized. 

I'm not that weak. 

I reach down and stretch, hands touching toes and back arching, popping. It's been too long since I've actually worked out. No wonder I'm kicking fridges, I'm so used to daily runs and a steady stream of jobs, my body yearns for movement. My mind's the same way, I can't just sit and wait for something to do, I have to seek it out and do it. 

When I come up from the stretch, I take hold of my right ankle and pull it into my lap, sitting crossed so I can reach easily. I can feel my fingertips on the metal, and I'm honestly not sure if the sensation is in my hand or in my leg. There's a sort of... Tingle, that runs through the metal and up into stump of flesh it's joined with. It travels through it, along nerves and pathways I'm sure weren't meant to be used like that, and settles low in my stomach. 

Guess I feel my legs in my gut now. 

Weird, but not something I can't deal with. 

I'm just gonna not think too hard about it, before I get existential or something. 

The legs - my legs. I really need to get on calling them my legs, stop treating them like their dad's creation. I'm not getting rid of them, I might as well take ownership of them - have an outer casing that can easily be unscrewed, so that's where I start. That's the part Cinder had taken off the first night, when she tended to my injuries. Underneath, it's a world of unknowns. 

I'm not shaky in the hand, or really thinking about it too much. I've tinkered a little before, it was never my thing, but I know my way around tools of about any kind. Tool-tools, people who are tools, people's tools. You name it, I can probably work with it.

I grew up putting together stolen cars and breaking into places without setting off alarms. I've got a basic understanding of the technology and mechanics, just got to apply it.

Just have to pretend this is some busted junk car, and not my leg. 

Case off, and first thing I see, bloody wires. That isn't the swear bloody, there's literally blood on them. I do a quick check, and it's not fresh, so it must be from a few days ago. 

Let me just. Wipe that on the blanket. Yeah, no one will notice. My blanket anyways, who cares. 

At least the wires are colored, makes tracing them easier. None of them are managed, not a single ziptie or cable clamp or anything to keep them remotely in place. They've just been rattling about whenever I move my legs, and I'm amazed nothing's come unplugged yet. 

Dear dad, fuck you for tangling these up and not labeling anything. Also fuck you for everything else you've done, to me, for the years of beatings and rape, you suck and I hope hell has you rotting in a hole. 

Breathe. Stop thinking. 

I can't have a crisis and leave my leg half disassembled. 

Black and red are easy to assume power and ground. I'm not... Sure what powers my legs, but that's part of what today is about, figuring them out. 

As for the green, blue, white, and other assorted wires? Fuck. I don't know. Is this one even- no, it isn't connected. It's literally just in the tangled mess for no reason. I groan, and somewhere I swear I hear Emerald snicker at my misfortune. 

And the gauges! Why is everything a different size? Did he run out of wires? 

Nothings labeled. Nothings tied down. Nothing is the same size. 

I'm going to scream. 

Or maybe just swear and alert my company to the nightmare that is my life. 

"FUCK! Emerald, I know you don't care, I know you're hiding in some rat cozy hole, but never let a drunken barbarian wire your legs. Just. Don't do it." 

I'm not expecting to get an answer, but she surprises me. A bit muffled and far away, but I mean, she _is_ far away and hiding somewhere, so what was I expecting? "I'll make sure to keep that in mind. How's your little project going?" 

This is the first time I've actually had a real conversation with Emerald, and I can't even see her. Until now it's been 'hey's when passing each other and asking for things. Just talking is kind of nice. 

"I found blood, wires, and disappointment." 

"You are a disappointment." 

"Thanks, 'Em." 

"Anytime, Merc'." 

Maybe I don't love Emerald, maybe I don't hate her either, but I think I could get used to those nicknames. Much better than shithead, anyways. 

"Hey, Emmy?" I'm pushing every bit of fake niceness into that, because maybe if I'm nice she'll say yes. It seems to work for people who are actually nice, or at least, they say it works. I don't think I fully believe those people.

"Don't ever call me that again, or you're name's Merc-y-poo, but what?" 

"Can you get me that box of markers that's around here? I want to try and get an organization system going, so when these break I stand some chance of fixing them." 

I hear a groan, and then nothing. It's hard to tell if Emerald's moving, she makes so little noise when she walks. Soon enough, I see her come out of the kitchen (she was in the kitchen? WHERE? I've been in there six times today and haven't seen here) with the box in hand. 

She crouches down, looking at my legs, and nudging the casing that's been set off to the side with her foot. The temptation to tell her not to kick me is there. She seems... Not quite sure what to make of it all, and honestly, I can't blame her. 

When she starts to move off, I call her again. "Toss me those pills," and she does without a second thought before going off to whatever secret dimension she lives. 

Two down and a drink of water - I'm so smart for getting water before sitting down - and it's back to work. 

Theoretically, I should be able to unplug things, as long as I plug them back in right. 

Hopefully. 

Before I go yanking any cords, I go ahead and label the ports with numbers and what color wire plugged in. 1 with a green mark goes to 2 with a green mark, and so on. My handwriting is crap, which is why everything is in a color, in case I come back and can't actually read my chicken scratch numbers. 

There's some wires that go into ports in the metal, and some that go into flesh, like a wire connection has joined with my flesh and been melted there (thanks, Cinder) so that they can't come loose. I assume on the flesh size, they somehow connect to my nervous system, but I'm not curious enough to go cutting myself apart to have a look inside. 

Nah, I'll stick to taking apart things that require a screwdriver. 

Power, then ground, and my leg goes entirely limp. The blue lights go out, and I can no longer move or feel it. It's unnerving, and I'm quick to plug both back in, just to be sure I can still move it after. 

Right okay, things still move, nothing feels any weirder than before, so unplugging is no big deal.

After removing the wires, I set them all aside, still annoyed with how much of a tangled mess they are. I'll eventually get around to replacing all of them - I don't trust their quality, I need these legs to not fail - but for now, untangling and managing will have to do. 

Without all of them in the way, I can get a better look at what's actually going on. 

In several places, the pieces of metal don't quite line up, or lines that should be straight have a slight waver to them, and some cut edges have sharp burs that are quickly smoothed out with a file. By the end of poking at them, I've got nicks on my fingers from it. More blood on the blanket, yay. 

From the looks of it, the inner part of the leg cannot be removed. Period. It is fastened to my flesh, and likely bone too, and there's no disconnect point like I've seen on professionally made prosthetics. 

Just like I thought, there's no getting rid of these without doing more damage.

At the points where the inner part screws onto the case, there are sensor pads and connect to the blue wires. So blue is feeling input, got it. I should make note of that in a place that's hard to forget. 

I pick up the casing and find a suitable place on the underside for the diagram. Nothing fancy, nothing anyone but me - and my dad, I guess, he could if he wasn't dead - would actually understand. I've never... Been a fan of writing in English. Made up my own pictograph based language ages ago, so it's in that that the diagram is written. 

It's not like I'm going to let someone touch the inside of my leg. Just like I'm not gonna let someone touch my guts. It just. Won't happen. Hands off the innards, dammit. 

I still can't find any real power source. Not a battery that I can yank out, and I think I would have noticed if my legs had solar panels or something else remarkably stupid on them. So dad either built the battery so deep inside it can't be changed, or they're somehow running off something my body generates. 

Here's hoping these legs just siphon off a bit of aura or something, and aren't reducing my likely already short lifespan. 

Putting the wires back isn't nearly as bad as I would have thought. With things label, and zipties and some actual effort put into keeping them neat, it turns out alright. Would be better if the inner part of the leg had some cable clips to hold it flush to the metal, but hey, it isn't horrible anymore. When I plug the power back in, I can still move and feel, and do a test stand and lap around the house to stretch.

None of the wires seem tied too tight, or like they'll come out if I move, so overall Mercury Leg Matience Company gets a rating of 8/10. Two points off for having shitty legs in the first place. 

I plop back down, and grab a tub of grease, touching up the joints and stretching them out to work it in as much as possible. If I had something to buff and polish the metal, I probably would, but I don't think anything designed to fix a leaking tap or shut up a squeaky door will help me there, and like hell I'm leaving the apartment to make a trip down to a hardware store.

When I line the case back up, there's a bit of room left between it and the wires, now that they aren't the holy mother of all disasters. Could probably store something small in there. 

Something about the size of an ammo clip, maybe Dust in a shatterproof container. 

Or a vibrator. 

....

Wait, I've got two legs. I can have both. There is no reason to chose. I can be prepared for any situation.

I'm a genius. 

I'd tell someone, but I think I'll keep possibly wanting a vibrator or secret weapon to myself for the time being. Emerald doesn't strike me as interested, Cinder's still scary, Neo's like five, and Torchdick...

Torchdick's uh... 

I don't like him. Let's leave it there and settle the urge to kick shit down before the microwave gets what the fridge got. 

With the case back on, that leg feels better. Best guess is the off-ness was caused by a wire starting to come loose, so as long as I take care of them and check the connections every once and a while, I should be good to take a beating - or dish one out. 

I lean back against the couch, still sitting on the floor, starting to pack up the tools. 

That's when it dawns on me, for the second time in a very short amount of time. 

Wait. 

I have two legs. 

I have to do the other one. 

And just like that, my plans for the rest of the evening involve swearing and disappointment. 

Ah, the joy of maintenance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neo? Uh. Never heard of her. Here's some leg stuff. 
> 
> Promise next chapter is ACTUALLY Neo as promised, I just. Had to to write leg stuff, and I wanted to space out the more intense chapters a bit. 
> 
> ALSO TWO IN ONE DAY WHAT THE FUCK.

**Author's Note:**

> WOW longest chunk of this series yet. I know it's not long by anyone elses standard, but this stuff is long to me and a little bit gut-wrenching to write. Here's to hoping I'm doing decent. This one's gonna be multi-chapter, but I'm not certain how many yet. 
> 
> Any comments, feedback, random opinions, a comment full of nothing but thumbs up emojis, kudos, etc etc are greatly appreciated!


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